


Mother, Mother, I Am Ill

by Sleepyhollow_101



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Jack and Janet Drake Suck, Sickfic, Tim Drake is Bad at Self-Care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25931125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepyhollow_101/pseuds/Sleepyhollow_101
Summary: Tim gets sick an awful lot.It wouldn't be so bad if he weren't so alone all the time.Bruce Wayne might have something to say about that.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 9
Kudos: 391
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	Mother, Mother, I Am Ill

Timothy Drake is sick.

He wakes up in the morning with a sore throat, a headache, and body aches. It’s cold in the house – he left the heat off during the night and the morning is much colder than he’d anticipated – and the last thing he wants to do is get out of bed.

But what he wants doesn’t matter – it rarely does. He has school, and if he doesn’t show up, the school will contact his parents. Tim wants to avoid even the off-chance of disturbing his parents – they’ll be _furious_ if they know he’s playing hooky. He doesn’t really want to know what they’d do.

So he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, where he looks at himself in the mirror – his skin is pale but for the splotches of red high on his cheeks. He has bags under his eyes and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looks terrible and doesn’t even have time for a shower.

He manages to brush his teeth, run a comb through his hair and get dressed. The thought of food doesn’t appeal to him, so he skips breakfast and hops – more like trudges – onto the bus for school.

School is… hell.

It’s not the worst he’s ever felt at school – he doesn’t throw up in the bathroom, not even once, so this doesn’t even make his top five worst sick days at school. But he can’t concentrate on what his teachers are saying, he feels alternately too hot and too cold, and he can barely keep himself awake.

Nobody notices he’s sick. Which should be a relief, he guesses, but it ends up making him feel worse. He’s sniffling and wiping tears from his eyes as he boards the bus back home after the final bell rings, blaming the upswell of his emotions on his fever.

_I’m not normally this unreasonable,_ he thinks to himself as he lays his head against the cool glass, already feeling carsick.

When he arrives at Drake Manor, he _does_ throw up, but at least he did it in the bushes so hopefully nobody notices. He wipes his mouth and walks to his front door – it takes him twice as long as usual and he’s panting by the time he gets there.

He walks inside and it suddenly registers that he’s so, _so_ hungry. He hasn’t eaten all day, and even though he doesn’t really seem to have an appetite for food right now, he _definitely_ needs to eat.

But the kitchen is far away and the living room is closer. He makes his way into the living room, tosses his backpack on the floor and practically collapses onto the sofa. _I’ll just rest for a few minutes. I can get food later._

A few minutes turns into a few hours of sweats, chills, and aches. He lays on the couch, wishing desperately that he had some water and maybe some crackers. Getting up to find them is too much.

Eventually, he falls asleep – passes out? – on the couch, tired and dehydrated and still sick, sick, sick.

* * *

_Two years later – three months after Tim becomes Robin_

Timothy Drake is sick.

The first thing he does when he wakes up in the morning is puke. He pukes and pukes and pukes until he’s sure he’s torn something inside himself, that’s how much it hurts. He sits on the bathroom floor, panting and blinking tears out of his eyes. At least he made it to the toilet this time – cleaning vomit out of the carpet is an experience he does _not_ want to repeat.

He tries to force himself to drink some water from the sink. He manages to keep it down, but it makes his nausea almost unbearable. He doesn’t bother getting dressed or going downstairs – instead, he just lays on the cool bathroom floor and wishes he was someone else.

At least he doesn’t have school today – sometimes, the universe works in his favor. Not often, but, you know, once in a while.

He lays there, drifting in and out of consciousness, occasionally waking up to puke in the toilet again. He’s pretty sure he should try to make himself some soup or something, even if he’ll end up throwing it all up anyway, but going down to the kitchen sounds like a Sisyphean task and he’s not up for it today.

He’s prepared to spend his entire day like this when his phone starts ringing. It’s a special ringtone assigned to a special person.

Bruce.

He feels a spike of anxiety in his chest – this whole Robin thing is still really new, and Tim keeps waiting to mess up so badly that Batman sends him away, tells him not to come back. So far, Bruce has let him stick around, even though he’s clearly unhappy with the arrangement. Every time he calls or texts or simply talks to Tim, Tim feels like he’s disappointing him. Like he’s about to be fired at any second, and then there will be nobody around to help Batman, and that’s just not right.

He pulls himself out of his wayward thoughts and realizes the phone is still ringing. He crawls out of the bathroom, snags his phone from his nightstand, and lays down on the bedroom floor. The carpet has more cushion anyway, maybe he should just stay here.

“Hello?” He whispers into the phone. His throat hurts from throwing up.

“Tim? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, too automatic for it to be true. “What’s up?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come by the Manor for a special assignment. But if you’re not feeling up for it, that’s alright.”

“No!” Tim blurts out, his heart rabbiting in his chest. “I… I can do it, I feel fine. I’ll- when do you want me to come by?”

“…Whenever you’re free.”

“Okay, I can be there in half an hour. See you soon, bye!”

Tim hangs up, panting, his thoughts whirring. Batman has a special project for _him_? He thinks he’s good enough to handle more responsibilities? This is what Tim has been waiting for – maybe Tim isn’t totally screwing this up after all.

If only it had come at a better time… but beggars can’t be choosers. It feels like leaden weights are attached to his feet, but he manages to dress himself and look semi-presentable before shuffling downstairs and out the door…

…Where he nearly runs right into Bruce Wayne.

“B-Bruce, what are you doing here?” He stutters, craning his neck to look up at the tall man.

Bruce frowns down with him, a furrow in his brow that screams trouble. That furrow means his bat-senses are tingling, and that means Tim is in trouble. Probably.

“You sounded a little under the weather on the phone. I just wanted to come by and make sure you were okay.”

“But I’m already on my way to the Manor. You could have just waited there for me.”

Bruce shrugs, then lays a hand against Tim’s forehead.

Tim stands very still. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your temperature.” Bruce frowns even more, if that’s possible. “You have a fever.”

It’s Tim’s turn to shrug. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Tim might have gotten away with that – he’s a good liar, good enough to even fool Batman if he really tries – but just then, the familiar sense of his stomach rolling tells him what’s about to happen. He barely manages to stumble over to the bushes by the house before he’s showering the ground with bile.

It’s probably the most embarrassing thing he’s ever done in front of Bruce, and that’s saying something.

He can feel tears stinging his eyes – great, just great. Now he’ll never get to do the special project and Bruce will be disappointed in him and it’s _all his fault._

“Hey, buddy,” says Bruce, putting a hand on Tim’s shoulder, “How many times have you thrown up today.”

Tim sighs, straightening his back but avoiding looking Bruce in the eye. “I don’t know… I lost count.”

Bruce hums. “Are you home alone?”

Tim nods.

“Okay. You’re coming back to the Manor with me.”

Tim looks up at him, eyes wide, hope a shimmer on the horizon. “You’ll still let me work on the assignment?”

“Tim…” Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I’ll let you do the project. _But not today._ You’re sick and you need to rest. The work isn’t urgent, it can wait a while.”

“Oh. But then why do you want me to go to Wayne Manor with you?”

“Because you shouldn’t be alone when you’re sick. Alfred and I can take care of you. Hang on – I’m going to carry you.”

Tim tries to form a protest but Bruce is already sweeping him up in his arms, bridal-style, and marching back over to Wayne Manor.

“I can walk!” says Tim, a little indignant.

“I know you can, but you must be tired and feeling pretty run down. Let me take care of things for a while.”

And… well. Tim supposes if anyone can be trusted to take care of things, it’s Batman.

He settles into Bruce’s arms. It’s… nice. He can’t remember the last time someone held him like this. Maybe never.

Bruce gets them through the front door, where Alfred is waiting. “I see we have a sick Robin on our hands,” he says, hands folded in front of him as he regards Tim.

“Hi Alfie,” Tim mumbles.

“It’s good to see you, Master Tim, though I do wish the circumstances were better. Are you hungry?”

Tim’s stomach lurches and he grimaces. “Yes, but… I don’t think I can eat anything.”

“Ah,” says Alfred with a nod, understanding Tim’s problem immediately. “Well, I shall make some tea to help settle your stomach. And perhaps some soup a little later.”

Tim mumbles his thank-you as Bruce carries him down the hall to the media room.

He sets Tim down on the sofa, covering him in the softest blankets he’s ever felt. He disappears from the room and reappears a few moments later with a tall glass of water and a large bowl.

He gets everything set up on the coffee table next to Tim. “Would you like to read something? Maybe watch TV?”

“Um, I guess I can watch TV,” he says.

Bruce gets everything set up as Alfred brings in some tea and crackers. Tim is just starting to nibble on them when Bruce leaves the room.

Tim turns the channel to some cartoon he doesn’t recognize and then settles in, wondering if maybe he can get a nap in before the next round of vomiting hits. He’s ready to spend the rest of his day alone, when suddenly Bruce reappears in the doorway.

He’s carrying some papers and his laptop. Tim’s about to ask what he’s doing when he comes in and sits at Tim’s feet, setting his papers on the coffee table and placing his laptop on his knees.

After a few moments, Bruce notices Tim staring.

“I thought I might do some work in here. Is that okay?”

Tim nods, unable to think of anything to say. Satisfied, Bruce goes back to his work, and Tim slowly relaxes.

Eventually, Tim does fall asleep. He wakes up a while later to throw up. Bruce is there when he does, holding his hair back from his forehead and murmuring nice things about how well Tim is doing. Tim didn’t know it was possible to throw up well. He’s pretty sure Bruce is just being nice to him, but he appreciates it all the same.

Bruce spends the entire day with him, and even watches Avatar: the Last Airbender with him once his work is finished. Tim eventually manages to eat some soup and keep it down.

When the sun begins to set, Tim expects to be asked to go home – he’s feeling better now, not great but he thinks he can make the walk over to Drake Manor okay. Instead, Bruce informs him that a room has been prepared for him, and without another word, he lifts Tim back in his arms and carries him upstairs.

Tim could get used to this.

He gets Tim settled in the guest room on an enormous bed piled high with blankets. Once Tim is situated, Bruce sits in an armchair next to the bed and pulls out a book. “Would you like me to read to you?” he asks.

Tim can hardly believe his luck. Breathless, he nods, then snuggles down into the bed as Bruce opens to the first page.

“Once, in a house on Egypt Street, there lived a rabbit who was made almost entirely of china…”

Tim tries to stay awake, loves listening to Bruce’s deep, melodic voice, even if the story seems a little silly. He can’t help how tired he is, though, and he falls asleep without even realizing it.

Tim manages to sleep through the night, which is a miracle in and of itself. When he wakes up the next morning, Bruce is still in the chair next to the bed, fast asleep. He stayed with Tim the entire night, even though it couldn’t have been comfortable and he has a perfectly good bed just a few doors down.

Tim is still sick, but he finds that he doesn’t quite mind so much.

* * *

_Three years later_

Timothy Drake is sick.

He wakes up in the morning to a familiar scratchy feeling in his throat and groans.

He rolls over in his bed and snags his phone off the bedside table. He sends a series of sick emojis to Bruce and then tosses his phone back down, burying his face in his pillows.

A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock on his door and he grunts.

The door opens and someone walks inside, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Tim’s stupid, dysfunctional body. “Hey, buddy,” says Bruce, carding his fingers through Tim’s hair. Tim sighs and leans into the touch. “Not feeling so good?”

Tim rolls over and blinks the sleep away from his eyes. “My throat hurts,” he croaks as he looks up at Bruce. The concern is plain on his face, which makes Tim feel sort of warm inside.

Bruce’s hand rests on his forehead. “You definitely have a bit of a fever. I’ll call the school and let them know you won’t be in today.”

Tim manages a weak smile. “Thanks, B.”

“That’s what I’m here for, kiddo. Now, let’s get you out of bed – you’ll feel better once you’ve had a shower.”

Tim groans and complains but Bruce manages to pester him out of his nice, warm blankets. He pouts as he drags himself into the bathroom, but he has to admit that Bruce is right – he _does_ feel a lot better once he steps out of the shower.

He exits the bathroom to find that Alfred has just finished putting new sheets on the bed. “Ah, Master Tim,” he says, “Master Bruce informed me of your condition. I’ve brought you some tea with honey – I’ll be bringing up some breakfast shortly. Do you have any requests this morning?”

“Not really. Just… something soft.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

Tim crawls back into bed and sips at his tea. It’s just the right temperature and prepared exactly how he likes it. He lets the honey soothe his throat. By the time he’s finished his cup, Alfred is bringing him some French toast with strawberries and a cup of coffee.

“Only one cup of coffee today, mind you,” says Alfred sternly. “You need to rest, and Lord knows you can’t do that with a caffeine headache.”

“Thanks Alfie,” says Tim with a genuine smile. The butler returns it before leaving Tim to his breakfast.

Once he’s eaten and taken the pills Alfred left for him, Tim spends most of the day lounging around in bed, playing on his phone and watching TV. He naps for a few hours in the afternoon. He wakes up when he feels the bed dip.

Bruce is sitting next to him, petting his hair again. Tim smiles and burrows further into his sheets.

“How are you feeling?”

Tim sighs. “Not great,” he admits. “But I’m managing.”

Bruce hums. “Maybe we should get you checked out at Leslie’s.”

Tim laughs a little, though it’s hard to laugh without straining his throat. “B, it’s probably just a cold. I’m _fine._ ”

Bruce doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop for now. “Do you feel up to eating something? Alfred says you slept through lunch.”

Tim’s stomach grumbles as if on cue. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Why don’t we eat in the media room? We can watch a movie together, if you’d like.”

Tim grins – because sick-day movies always, _always_ mean Star Wars. He gets out of bed and follows Bruce downstairs. Or, rather, Bruce follows _him_ , watching him like a hawk to make sure he doesn’t trip and break his neck or something. Tim would be annoyed, but it’s actually really nice, if somewhat overbearing.

They have spaghetti for supper, and Alfred doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed that they’re eating in the media room instead of the dining room table. They turn on _A New Hope_ and Tim relaxes into Bruce’s side, letting the man’s arm around his shoulders ground him.

Halfway through the second movie, Bruce gets up and disappears. He returns moments later with two bowls of ice cream – cookies and cream for Tim, chocolate for himself. He also brings chocolate sauce, sprinkles, and tiny marshmallows.

“You know Alfred will throw a fit if we eat that much junk food at once.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“He’s gonna figure it out anyway.”

“Most likely, yes.”

Tim laughs as Bruce pours an obscene amount of chocolate sauce over his ice cream – _B, there’s literally more sauce than there is ice cream, what is_ wrong _with you_ – and adds sprinkles and marshmallows to his own.

Later that night, Bruce escorts Tim back up to bed and settles in the chair next to him, like he always does when Tim is sick.

“You don’t have to stay, you know – I’ll be alright,” whispers Tim.

Bruce simply gives him a kiss on the forehead, picks up a book – _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ this time – and begins to read.

So, yeah. Being ill sucks. But if he’s gonna be sick, at least he gets to be sick surrounded by his family at Wayne Manor.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoy this! I love sickfics so I thought I'd try my hand at one. Bruce might be a little OOC given how early in Tim's Robin career part of this story occurs, but I like Soft Bruce Batdad Extraordinaire so I'm going with it.
> 
> I don't own any of these characters.


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